


The Long and Winding Road

by someforeignband



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Insecure John Lennon, It's a little sad, John Lennon Lives, John is my baby, M/M, but I think you'll like it, he must be protected, this is literally me just rewriting how it should have gone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23568418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someforeignband/pseuds/someforeignband
Summary: John talks to Paul through a journal.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Yoko Ono, Linda McCartney/Paul McCartney
Comments: 24
Kudos: 75





	The Long and Winding Road

**Author's Note:**

> hello lovelies !! hope you enjoy this ,, its a bit different than my norm but I hope you enjoy it all the same !!!
> 
> if you like it, you can thank the always lovely May for coaching me through this one :)

23 October, 1969

I feel old. Maybe tomorrow will be the day that my skin starts to sallow, starts to get all wrinkly, like. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I think I start to see those old-lady lines at the corners of my eyes, crow’s feet. If I were tell anyone about this, especially George, he’d have smacked me, yelled at me for being so stupid. But, I guess there’s not much to do or say about all of it now, is there? It’s all as good as over, isn’t it? And, I reckon it’s my undoing, isn’t it?

I guess I should’ve figured that me bringing Yoko into things would cause some problems, and I guess I should’ve been smarter about this whole thing. Just frustrated, felt kinda hypocritical of you to get so furious with the way I was acting, when you were acting the same way. And I guess I’m just left knowing that all of this was mostly my fault, all of it, what we had was something special, but I let your pride take over, not realizing I’d let you go this far. That is, until it was too late, and we were screaming at each other across the studio. 

Okay, maybe it was mostly me doing the yelling. And I’m sorry for that, I am. 

You know that you get underneath my skin, more in a bad way than good, lately. And I suppose that fact is also on me, isn’t it? Because you’re so good, Macca, everything you do is so fucking good, always better than anything I could put out. 

Goddamn it I feel so old. 

Feels like my life’s going down the drain you know? Yoko lays beside me in bed and we fit together in this way that’s strange and new, but it’s not the same. When we do art and when she lays a hand on my chest, it’s not like you. You’re the only one that gets me to write like I did, you pushed me, in a good way. Usually. And, she pushes me you know? Just not like you did, never like you did. 

I think about you more than I should, you know? And I reckon it’s not healthy, not good to dwell on the past, but here we are. 

I’m still angry, and I feel bad about being angry, but I can’t help it. You always said I was an angry person, and I guess you’re right. 

I’m sorry about getting married.

I miss you. 

__

20 February, 1970

Your album’s shit, Paul. 

I know you write better than that, I know you record better than that, and whatever that shite you just released is… it’s not your best work. 

I’m rooting for you.

__

10 March, 1971

Quite the letter your wife wrote me. 

It’s just when I get to forgetting how much you tear me up that you pull shite like this, being downright disrespectful to me and my family. And for what? 

You ignorant fucking prick. 

You’re a damn piece of hot rubbish left out in the fucking sun, you know that?

I was going to let it go, going to let it slide. But, Yoko’s pretty broken up about all of it, and I would be, too. If I were in her shoes, I’d feel pretty fucking insulted. 

And I can’t believe I was starting to think that maybe I’d come see you, that maybe I’d finally get up the courage to pay you a fucking visit. But now, I can see it’s pretty obvious that you probably don’t feel like seeing me, or my lovely wife. You really can’t go without beating a dead horse, can you? 

Cause you’ve always got to be the best, right? Always got to come out on top?

What “kind and unselfish” people you are. 

Fuck you. (And your wife, too). 

___

19 March, 1971

Sorry for how I worded what I said. 

I’m not sorry for what I said, just how I worded it. 

I’m still upset. 

__

27 June, 1971 

I lied. 

How do you sleep is about you. 

Everything I do is about you. 

___

4 October, 1971

Do you ever think about Paris?

__

11 December, 1971

I like it, Paul. 

I really like the album.

You do well in a band, I reckon. Your wife has a lovely voice. 

So do you. 

__

22 May, 1972

I wish things would’ve gone differently. I’m feeling like everything that went on between us had to be for a reason, right? Like this all had to go to shit for what? Why’d we let it get this bad? Why’d it have to go like this? I suppose it was bound to happen, with the fact that I tend to be transient with the people I hold close, I suppose it serves me right that the woman I love would walk away with someone else. I suppose it serves me right. You know? 

Everyone finds a way to walk away from me, and if I could walk away from me, I suppose that I would, too. You always regarded me as insufferable, but you stuck around. It was always you, Paulie. It seemed that even when other people walked out on me, gave up on me, died on me, you never did. You always found a way to keep me grounded, you know? Always kept my head on my shoulders, you did.

Swear it, sometimes I felt like my damn head was gonna float away, and you’d bring me back, saying “You weren’t gone long, Johnny,” and giving me a pat on my shoulder. I guess, I’ve been wandering away a lot lately, feeling like I’m hollow, my head feeling like it’s much too light for my body, almost like it’s not attached. And, I guess that's alright. But, it’s hard for me to get back, hard to keep where I am. You know those moments I’d have, you understand.

Yoko says it worries her. I think it’s just- well I guess I’m not really sure what it is. I’ve been feeling kinda empty lately, nothing feels fulfilling, every day is a fucking drag, and everything that comes out of my mouth seems to float away with my mind. 

I miss you.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, wishing that you were here. Even my wife can’t tether me to the ground anymore, and I suppose that’s why she’s run off with someone else. Yes yes, I’m sure you saw this coming, but I hadn’t. 

I’m sure that my narcissism you always talked about. But, you have a fair bit of that too, I reckon. But, that’s not even important, is it? No. I reckon not. I wish we’d never become famous. I miss sitting on the floor in my room, writing dumb songs, performing with the Quarrymen, I miss  _ you.  _

_ I miss you dearly.  _

And I suppose I could reach out, but after everything that’s gone on between us, I doubt you’d want to even see me. I can’t help it, you know? When people ask about you, I find myself getting so, so  _ angry,  _ and I pretend it’s because the band broke up. I pretend I’m angry with  _ you,  _ rather than the situation, and I can’t help but- 

I don’t even know. 

I’m too drunk to be writing this, too drunk to be thinking about you. 

I always wonder whether you miss me at all. I doubt it. 

My own wife doesn’t even miss me, running around with someone else. And I suppose you probably don’t have that problem, seeing as you and Linda are so perfect for one another. You’re so perfect, everything you do is perfect. I dragged you along for so long, and I guess you cutting ties with me was probably a good thing for you. But I needed you, I still need you. When you cut me loose, I floated away, you see?

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. 

I’m pissed drunk and I’m talking to a fucking journal, wishing it was you. 

Always wishing it was you. 

**I still love you** **.**

___

5 August, 1972

Is Best Friend about me?

Do you really think of me?

~~I hope so.~~

__

18 June, 1973

Happy birthday, Paul. 

I hope you’re doing well. 

It’ll always be you, you know? You’ll always be the first person I ever loved, still the first person I ever fell for. No matter how much we hate each other, it doesn’t change the fact that you will always be my first love. Time can change a lot of things, but it can’t change the past, and for once, I think I’m grateful for that. But, you’ve built quite the life for yourself, and I hope it’s treating you well.

Your children look just like you. That’s a blessing. Not that Linda’s not beautiful, she is. But you- there was a reason that you were always regarded as the “pretty Beatle” I suppose. I hope you have an extra finger of Whiskey for me today, and I hope your birthday is as wonderful as you are. 

If I wasn’t so worried I’d ruin your birthday (I suppose I have a habit of ruining things that matter to you), I’d give you a ring, maybe even come and see you. However, I wouldn’t want to make a spectacle on your day, and after the nasty letter I wrote last year, you probably don’t want to see me. 

I don’t even want to see me, sometimes. 

Happy Birthday, Macca. 

__

30 July, 1973

Yoko’s leaving me for a man called Sam Greene. Strange happenings, but once again, I supposed that it’d happen eventually. 

I’m in Los Angeles.

I talked to Julian. I thought you’d be proud of me, somewhat. You were always more of a father to him than I ever was.

Do you still talk to him? I hope so. He loves you. 

I do, too. 

__

7 July, 1973

Julian tells me that you two are still in touch. I think that’s a good thing. 

I really fucked up with him, Paul. Worse than with you. 

I want to make things right, but I worry that it’s all over, that it’s too late. I think about him a lot, and I hope he’s doing okay with his mum. She’s a wonderful woman. 

Wish we’d worked that out. 

I was such a shit husband. Such a shit father. 

A shit friend. 

A shit. 

But, I’m sure you knew that already. 

I’m seeing a woman called May. I’m sure you’ve seen her in the papers. She’s beautiful. She encouraged me to see Julian again, to try to patch things up with him, and thus far, it’s worked somewhat. I’m hopeful that she can maybe help me figure things out. I really like her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss Yoko, that I don’t miss you.

She knows how much I miss you, and nags at me to ring you. But, every damn time I go to pick up the phone, I’m suddenly at this loss for words. What could I even say to you, Paul? After all this time, what the hell could I even say? 

Hope you and the kids are well. Maybe you’ll get a call from me soon. 

__

13 September, 1973 

Thinking of you a lot today. 

__

15 September, 1973

It’s raining here, and I can’t sleep.

I reckon I could and you’d pick up, but that would be stupid, wouldn’t it? 

I gave up on us. Biggest mistake I ever made, and now here we are, miles and miles apart, not speaking. I’ve been a wreck, Paul. Good god I’ve been a wreck. 

I can’t sleep. I feel sick. 

~~I miss you.~~

__

16 September, 1973

Apparently, you said in an interview that “we were OK”. When did we get to be “OK”? 

Did Julian tell you I was thinking of you? 

Because I was. 

Maybe I’ll call soon. 

__

20 October, 1973

I miss Paris. 

__

15 November, 1973

I miss you. I feel sick. 

__

2 January, 1974

We spoke today. 

I almost hung up when you picked up the phone, almost felt like the receiver was burning a hole in my hand and I didn’t even know what to say. I think I first said “Hello”, and then I think I said “I’m sorry,” and then I think I held my breath while you spoke cause I felt like if I even took a breath you might hang up. I’m not sure what I said actually, honestly, I could’ve talked about anything. I didn’t feel like my brain was connected to my brain in the slightest at that moment, and I was so grateful you didn’t hang up the phone. I don’t think I could have handled it. I don’t think it was until you started laughing that I felt the air leave my lungs, finally. 

You sounded just like I remembered, and for a moment I felt all these tears rush to my eyes cause this weight that I didn’t even know was there was lifted, and I’d been floating away for so long that I had forgotten what it felt like to have my feet planted firmly on the ground. 

After you hung up, telling me we’d speak soon, I think I cried for the entirety of an hour. I swear I can still feel my heart thrumming in my ears, squeezing up in my chest. It was like my heart didn’t know how to beat properly, and crawled up in my throat. I haven’t cried in a really long time, at least not like that. 

It felt good. 

I forgot how lonely I’d been without you. 

I mean, I’m sure Linda’s your other half, but you’ll always be mine. It’s alright if I’m never yours, it’s alright if I never was, just nice to know that you’re still mine, even after years. 

You’ll always be the other half of me, I think. 

__

29 March, 1974

My heart stopped when you came into the studio last night. I think seeing you in person like that, dropping by unexpected like that. I don’t know what would’ve been worse: realizing that I feel the same way about you that I did in 1956, or that I didn’t. 

Either way, I feel the same way. I do. 

And I don’t think I’ll ever stop. I mean, I’m lucky I can stomach drugs better than you, that I can keep it all professional, like. Coke-brain was never a good look for you. Probably not for me, either. Doesn’t matter. 

Hope I can see you again. Sober. 

~~I love~~

__

3 May, 1974

I’m sorry. 

Harry looks so much like you, it almost felt like it was the real thing, almost felt like you. 

But, it could never be you. 

__

31 December 1974

I’m getting back with Yoko. There’s something missing from my life, and I know it’s you, but maybe if I tell myself it’s her, then maybe it’ll start to finally feel like it  _ is her.  _

I know that’s stupid, it’s all so stupid. 

I feel like I’m floating away again, I think maybe this time I’ll just let myself go. 

I’m a queer, aren’t I?

Doesn’t matter. Nothing does. 

__

10 April, 1975 

We’re having a baby. Hopefully. I hope you’ll come round to meet the little one. 

I’m excited, more than I have been in a very long time. I’ll probably call you later today and tell you in person, but I hope you’ll be excited for me. If anything were to happen to me, I know I’d want him to know you at least. 

You’re the best man I know. 

__

9 October, 1975

I held my boy in my arms today. 35 years old and the father of a beautiful baby boy. 

Sean. 

He’s absolutely gorgeous, Paul. I do hope you’d come meet him. I reckon every baby should have a Paul McCartney in their life, a caring lad to look after them. I can’t imagine trying to raise a baby without having you round, seems impossible. 

I’ll call you sometime tomorrow probably, I hope you’d consider coming round. 

You deserve to see how beautiful he is. He’d love you, for sure. 

I love you. 

Not sure how anyone couldn’t. 

__

1 November, 1975

I think I had too much to drink after I put Sean to sleep. I try to stay away from the bottle, it does me dirty every time. I always find myself thinking about you, and you’d think, after all these years, that I’d learn to give it up, learn to live without you in my life. I mean, you’re still in my life, but not the way you once were. 

And if wanting you back in my life, back in my arms, back in my bed, makes me a damn queer, then so be it. Sometimes, I think about the fact that I’ve lived my whole damn life afraid of who I was, and the fact that it’s all been thrown to shit. And it absolutely tears me up inside, Macca, cause I have to go to sleep every night knowing that you don’t miss me like I miss you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t think about us- me- ever. 

I guess I am scared, scared of everything. The word on the tip of my tongue, you know? 

Doesn’t matter. Without you, nothing does. The only thing this godforsaken universe ever did for me was bring you into my life, and here I am, alone and cold in my living room, watching the cars on the streets outside my window. I’m drinking Brandy, thinking about you. 

Fitting, probably. 

I could call, we’re at that point now, I reckon. But, it just doesn’t feel right I guess. 

Do you ever think about me? Think about us? 

It’s been so long, I’ve started to forget what it feels like to have your hand pressed into mine, and maybe it’s for the best. Maybe, I shouldn’t talk to you here in this journal anymore, maybe this is making it worse. Yeah. This is probably not helping, I shouldn’t write in here anymore. 

I just have so many questions I want to ask. 

Is Dear Friend about me? 

Do you miss me, even a little?

Would you forgive me if I asked? 

Would you give it all up? Would you ever let me spend a weekend with you, alone?

Do you ever think about Paris? 

I’ve had too much to drink. I should go to bed. Maybe tomorrow I’ll give you a call. I’m beginning to feel sick thinking about it all. This has been too much. 

Goodnight, Paul. 

__

18 June, 1976

Happy Birthday. 

__

22 August 1976

I enjoyed that you came to visit. I’m glad you got to meet Sean. I was so excited to see you, and having you here made me feel more whole than I have in a while. Between you and my little boy, I couldn’t have asked for more. I hope you’ll come visit again. 

I loved having you around. 

I love you still. And it feels dirty and wrong and so inappropriate, I mean, we’re both married. But, the heart wants what it wants, no? 

__

18 June, 1977

Happy Birthday, my dear Paul. 

__

12 September 1977

Congratulations. Jim’s beautiful. I hope I can meet him sometime soon. I reckon him and Sean would get along, then again, I don’t know. 

__

28 February, 1978

Bisexual. 

Maybe that’s it, you think? Seems fine to me. Doesn’t seem like such a dirty word when I write it down. 

Doesn’t seem so  _ queer _ when it’s on paper. 

__

30 May, 1979

I suppose me deciding to stop writing in this journal was rather futile. But I think it’s been good for me, good for me to not run here every time I think of you. Hell there’d be a million fucking jounal entries if that were the case. 

I hope you and Linda are well. 

I miss us, though. The two of us. 

Doesn’t matter, it seems that nothing does. Without you, nothing matters. I’m floating again, Paul. It seems that every time I find myself wandering up, up and away, I turn to you. Or at least, I try. We may be on good terms, but those ties you cut years ago still leave me loose and scattered in the winds. And, I suppose that’s for the best. 

If I wander away this time, I suppose you won’t be there to come back and get me, I wouldn’t expect you to feel like you had to. But here I am, calling out to you within a stupid book, it’s not like it really does any good anyway, but if I write in here, at least I can almost feel you’re here. I’ve been gone so long, it seems I’ve forgotten what it feels like to put my feet on the ground. 

I’m losing weight. I feel sick constantly. 

I miss you.

Missing you dearly, it’s getting so much worse every day. The weight in the center of my chest is back and I don’t know what’s going on but my head’s light, but my body’s heavy. So heavy. 

I miss Paris. 

I miss being young. 

I miss Liverpool, and I miss you dearly. 

I love you dearly.

__

18 June, 1980

Happy Birthday, my dear Pauly. 

I’ll call you tonight, but I just thought I’d say it here, too. 

Here’s to many more years of the lovely Paul McCartney.

~~I love you.~~

__

3 October, 1980

I guess it took a while, but I realized that I turn 40 this year. Someone told me that life starts at 40, that the beginning of the best part of your life begins at 40. And good god, I hope they’re right. 

I don’t want to live like this anymore. I can’t keep living like this. I think I’m going to separate from Yoko. Neither of us are happy, and I kind of feel as though we were only staying together for Sean, to keep the family intact, somewhat. But it’s seemed like it’s doing more harm than good. He’s nearly five and I guess it would probably be more beneficial for him to grow up in separate, but loving nonetheless, environments, rather than the one he’s in right now. I just worry. I don’t want to let Sean get away from me like I did Jules. I’m still trying to patch up our relationship, but it’s hard.

I was a shit father, and I can’t bear the thought of walking out on my son for a second time, but it seems that Yoko wants to separate, too. Hell, she almost left me back in ‘73 for another man, but she came back. And we tried again, rather fruitfully I would say, getting the most wonderful reward out of it. My darling boy.

I’ve grown up a lot since our days in the band, I mean, a decade will do that for you, I suppose. 

I’m more comfortable with it all now, I guess I should say, more comfortable with all of  _ me  _ now. And who knows, maybe I’ll run off with another man, or another woman, honestly, who knows? The possibilities really are endless, I’d say. 

For the first time in a while, I feel like maybe something is going to possibly work out, maybe something’s going to fit. After all, I’ve heard that life starts at 40… whatever that means, I like the sound of it, and I hope that it holds true. 

I’m planning on calling you sometime tomorrow, I think. Even if I’m going to look for love elsewhere, it doesn’t mean that I don’t miss writing with you. George isn’t speaking to me, (still sour about everything that’s gone on, I presume) and I haven’t seen Ringo in quite some time (not on a bad foot or anything, just gone our separate ways is all). But, I would really like to get back in the studio, maybe get back in the studio with  _ you.  _ But, who knows what you’ll say! You’re a busy man. 

And that’s good. 

I’ve liked everything you’ve put out, by the way. It’s all been quite good. Sounds like you, and once again, Linda’s got a lovely voice (so do you, but I wouldn’t want it going to your head). 

I suppose this might be the last this journal hears from me for a while, I reckon I might finally put the pen down. It’s been nearly ten years since I’ve loved you like I wish I could now, and I surmise that I should get on with my life anyroad. I know it’ll be tough, but I’m not afraid of change; I’ve always been afraid of losing you, but never the change that comes before it. Now, (I hope, at least) I’ll be able to have the best of both worlds. You’ll still be in my life, still a constant part of me, but it’ll just be  _ different.  _

Not good, not bad, just different. 

And after all these years, I reckon that’s quite alright. I can’t keep picking up where I left off, expecting us to be like we were before, it’s like re-reading a book and expecting a different ending. It just doesn’t work that way. 

But it doesn’t bother me anymore, it doesn’t get under my skin like it used to, because I’ve grown enough to recognize that you can be my other half, but I might not be yours. And while that pained me, tore me up inside for ages, I’ve come to terms with it. It’s comforting, you know. 

I will always love you, James Paul McCartney, but that doesn’t mean that I need to tear myself up over the fact that I’m not  _ in  _ love with you all of the time. Sure, I still lie awake at night every now and again, wondering what it would be like to have you there beside me. But, you’re somewhere else, where you’re happy. 

I want to be happy, too. 

You may be the other half of me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to find happiness elsewhere. 

Maybe in another life, under different circumstances, in a different place, under different stars, we could’ve worked out. And maybe all of this was one-sided, and maybe I’ve been hanging onto something that was never really there in the first place. Either way, I know what we had was something special (or at least I hope so), but I can’t beat myself up over something that doesn’t matter anymore.

After all, life starts at 40, and I can’t wait for my life to start. 

I love you, my dear, and I fear that I always will. Moreover, I fear there will always be a little part of me that hopes with everything I have that one day you’ll wake up and call me, realizing what you’ve been missing for all these years. And maybe it won’t happen in this life, maybe not the next, maybe we’ll have to keep on trying until one of us can finally get the goddamned thing right.

But in the end, it’ll always be you. For me, it will always be you. 

__

Paul’s hands shook, looking down at the battered, caramel colored leather-bound journal and black ink pen in his hands. “I thought... you deserve to have it.” Yoko says from beside him, the awkward tension between the two of them putting up an obvious wall. 

“I suppose that’s best, y’know?” Paul weakly chokes back, blinking back the prickle of tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. She nodded at him, solemnly, walking away from the spot where he stood. 

As soon as he’d heard the news, he’d fled for the airport rushing to New York to be there for his friend. He’d hoped that it wasn’t too late, but when he’d arrived Yoko had informed him that John was in Intensive Care, four bullets to his back. Things looked grim. Luckily for John, the bullets had missed his spine, hitting ribs and organs instead. Not that that was any better, he was still in bad shape, but he stood a fighting chance to survive. Not a great chance, but a chance. 

Paul knew better than to sit there and get his hopes up. He’d lost people in his life before, this wasn’t new. He’d lost his mother, his father, and others, he could deal with death. But losing John would certainly be different, knowing that he might die would kill him. Losing John would be like losing a limb. Losing John would be worse than losing his own life. 

He looked up and down the grim, white hospital hallway, the sterility of it all made him want to throw up. Noticing the chairs against a far wall, he left where Yoko was standing in favor of sitting in a chair by himself, away from the deafening sound of the silence. Oh god did he feel sick. 

He sat down and, with shaking hands, began thumbing through the pages of the journal, which he quickly came to realize was John’s attempt to talk to  _ him.  _

_ Why didn’t he just call?  _ Paul wondered, a pang of guilt blooming in the center of his chest, his throat tightening up as he noticed themes within John’s writing the further in he got. 

First, John loved him. John loved him so much, so much that he couldn’t even lead a normal life. Second, John was sick for a long, long,  _ long _ time. Sick in the head, so sick that it was hard for him to do anything, hard for him to let go of things. Hard for him to let go of Paul. Third, John was finally getting better. 

And now, he was laying somewhere in a medically-induced coma, bullet holes in his back and stomach. 

The universe had done them dirty. 

Paul stared down at the journal in his hands, glancing between that and the black pen in his lap. In a split second decision, he was picking up the pen, flipping to the back of the small book, to where the blank pages were. 

8 December, 1980

I guess this is what it feels like to be on this side of these pages. Huh.

I wish you’d picked up the phone and just called, love. All those years, I sat stewing, believing that you didn’t give a damn about me, when all this time you were protecting yourself, protecting me. And god I love you for that.

We’re in pretty deep this time, Johnny. I’m not going to lie, we’ve been in trouble, but never like this, I don’t think. Doctors say they’re not sure if you’re gonna make it out of this one, this time. And that’s shit to me, you know? 

And I guess, if this is where our story ends, it’d be a pretty shit ending, cause then like you said, we really will be waiting until the next life to see each other again. And, this might be selfish of me, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that. 

I just got you back, Lenny. I just  _ really  _ got you back, and now the world expects me to let you go? Not a chance. 

To answer your questions:

Of course Best Friend is about you, who else could I have written it about?

Julian was the one who told me that you two were speaking again. It made me realize that you were really changing, really growing up. But, in the end, it was Linda who convinced me that I should start trying to mend things. She was probably just plain tired of me bitching and moaning about you all the time. 

I missed you every day when we weren’t talking. I was always steps away from picking up the phone, but you know me, I was too stubborn. I couldn’t put away my fucking pride to talk to my best friend for a few moments. 

I think about Paris a little bit too often, and I miss it like mad. 

I missed you like mad. 

Serves me right, I guess, that this would be the way it ends. But I hope it doesn’t, there’s so much more for us in this life, Johnny. 

I love you. Always have. You don’t fit into my side like Linda does, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, and that definitely doesn’t mean that you’re not my other half.

Because you are. 

There could never be anyone else. And that’s the worst part, I think. I don’t know how we’re gonna make it out of this one, my dear, but my god we are going to try.

I’ll be here when you wake up. 

And I’ll be here even if you don’t. 

__ 

“You should go to your hotel, Paul,” Yoko prods, gently, waking Paul from where he’d fallen asleep in the stiff, plastic hospital chair. 

“I can’t.” He chokes out, his voice groggy from sleep and the tears he’d ended up crying into his sleeve. 

“You can. You haven’t been back to your room for nearly a week. You need rest,” Yoko soothes, placing a soft hand against his shoulder. “I- I’ll call you if he wakes up.” 

“Okay,” Paul says weakly, running a sleepy hand over his face. He moves to grab his things, a leather overnight bag, and a jacket. But, just as he’s about to head out to his car, he feels the weight of the journal against the inside pocket of his jacket. Quickly turning around, he’s walking back towards Yoko. 

“Put this on his bedside table, would you? I know I can’t go in there right now, but you’re family. Can you-?” Paul asks, holding out the book towards her. 

“You know,” she says softly, “I’m sure we could figure out a way for you to see him, just for a moment… just- just in case.” 

The realization of what that phrase meant hit Paul like a ton of bricks, almost feeling the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “I thought he was doing better…” Paul mumbles to no one in particular as Yoko takes him by the arm, leading him into John’s room. 

Paul stared sadly at the emaciated body under blankets, tubes and wires attached every which way. “Is he awake?” He whispers to Yoko, who stood a few feet behind him. 

“There’s really no way to tell,” she responds, sadly. “They say he could wake up any day… or not at all…” She whispers, her voice choked with emotion. Paul nods in response, taking a few more hesitant steps towards John’s bedside. 

Hearing footsteps behind him, Paul whirled around to see Yoko walking towards the door. “I’ll leave the two of you for a moment, I’ll stand outside the door.”

“Thanks,” Paul responds, setting the book on the bedside table, moving a chair over to the side of John’s bed. 

Paul wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the nearly lifeless body in front of him, barely cognizant of the steady beep of the heart monitor in the background, or of the steady drip of the faucet, or the annoying hum of the ventilator. He wasn’t sure when he’d started talking to John either, spilling his heart out to the man who couldn’t even hear him, but it felt good. 

It almost felt like he was talking to John freely for the first time in months, years even. 

“And I just need you to wake up for me,” Paul chokes out, absentmindedly reaching for one of John’s hands that rested above the thin blanket. And as if a dam broke, he was collapsing into a heap of silent sobs against the side of John’s bed. 

“I need you,” Paul sobs, tears streaming down his face, wetting his trousers and sweater from where they slid off his face. 

“Maybe in another life,” he whispers, bringing both of his hands up to wipe the tears from his cheeks, then moving to brush some hair from John’s forehead. “Maybe in another life, my dear.” 

And after looking up at the clock for the first time, he realized he’d much overstayed his welcome, not even supposed to be in the same room as John. He moved the chair back towards the wall, picking up his things from the floor, leaving the journal on the small bedside table. 

As he went to leave, he noticed that he’d accidentally knocked the black pen to the floor, and bending down to pick it up, he could’ve sworn he heard John shift in position. Assuming it was his imagination, he placed the pen back on the table, then turned toward the bed. 

Leaning down, Paul pressed a soft kiss to John’s forehead, ignoring the tug in his chest, ignoring the increase in beeping in the heart monitor, ignoring everything around him in favor of the warmth he felt spreading over his body, the calm knowing this might be the last time seeing John, but knowing that it was spent in love. 

He pulled away, looking down at John in adoration, only for a moment, before realizing his eyes were slowly, but surely, blinking open. “Macca?” John croaks, his eyes adjusting to the dim light in the white room.

In a moment of overwhelming emotion, Paul drops everything he’s holding, rushing towards John, tears once again welling in his eyes. 

“If I’d have known it’d take me nearly dying to get you to kiss my forehead, I would’ve done this a long time ago,” John chuckles, his voice groggy. 

Collapsing in a heap against the side of the bed, Paul’s a mess, holding onto John’s hand a little too tightly, “Shut it, you stupid git.” 

John hums in response, squeezing Paul’s hand softly, “Glad to know you missed me, too.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come hang out w me on Tumblr and insta !! both are @someforeignband !! hope you enjoyed xxx


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